Let's Make a Deal
by CapturedTsunami
Summary: I sold my soul when I was 17 and got everything I wanted. I've never regretted it, not even for a second. It was a bargain well made and a soul well spent. So what am I doing standing in a ring of salt ten years later, talking to a hellhound like it's an overgrown lapdog? Oh that's right, I want to make a deal. Full Warning inside. Contains violence/torture, abuse/rape.
1. Author's Notes & Warnings

**Warnings**: _I will slap a warning on chapters that have major trigger items but this is the blanket warning. I think I got all the big stuff._

This fic is rated **M** for: language, violence, torture, physical abuse, mental/emotional abuse, sexual abuse, abuse (all of the above) by a parent figure, sexual content (consensual), sexual content (non-consensual)

* * *

**A note on timelines: **This story is not told from a linear prospective. It gets all wibbly-wobbly. Over the course of the story you will see flashes from eight different periods of time. They are marked, but for reference:

_Present Day_ – begins in late January 2013 soon after the events of _'Torn and Frayed'_ (S8E10) and before the events of _'Trial and Error'_ (S8E14) and proceeds from there. Slight AU involved.

_10 Years Ago_ – January 2003, Seattle

_7 Years Ago_ – Halloween 2006, North Carolina

_5 Years Ago_ – New York, set directly before the events of _'No Rest for the Wicked'_ (S3E16)

_4 Years Ago_ – Buenos Aires, set after _'On the Head of a Pin' _(S4E16)

_3 Years Ago -_ End of April/ beginning of May 2010, set after _'The Devil You Know'_ (S5E20)

_2.5 Years Ago – _Fall 2010, while Crowley is hunting for Alphas

_2 Years Ago –_ late 2011, sometime after Crowley's failure to make a deal with Dick Roman in _'Slash Fiction'_ (S7E6)

* * *

**Author's Note**: I've wanted to write a Crowley fic for some time because, well, _Crowley_. I had a handful of ideas floating around in my head and what one does my muse take and run with? The first person OC. Of course. Still, I've enjoyed writing this thus far and expect to continue to enjoy it. Just a warning: this will take a while to finish. I've got a lot of it written and 90% of it plotted out but I'm waiting to see how some of season 10 plays out before I finalize how the final details work out.

Chapter titles are lyrics taken from the wide variety of songs that my muse found/finds inspiring while writing this. They are credited at the end of every chapter.

As always, I write without a beta. All mistakes are entirely my own.

* * *

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural. Obviously.

* * *

**As always, reviews = love and totally make my day. They're also like crack for my muse and make her want to write more. Like the proverbial carrot dangled in front of the donkey, except the muse gets huffy if I start comparing her to an ass. **


	2. Everybody's Looking For Something

_Present Day…_

I sold my soul when I was seventeen and got everything I wanted. I have never regretted it, not even for a single second.

I nodded to the lady at the front desk and winked at the bellhop as I strode on past. The bellhop grinned back; the lady stared disapprovingly. Never mind that I had the money to pay the ridiculous per night fee and that I'd stayed here off and on for years. She still glared at me every time, as if she had some super power that let her know that I didn't come by all this naturally. Could be. She could be psychic for all I knew. That thought made me chuckle. Poor little Cindy, getting inside my head? That'd be one hell of a party for her to walk in on.

Of course, it could be as simple as the fact that I looked a bit out of place. It was raining today – unsurprising; mid-January in Seattle? Of course it was raining. It'd been raining ten years ago, too – so I had on the coat. It was black wool and had once probably cost more than Cindy at the front desk made in a month. Now it was a little old and worn, and despite the fact that I'd grown another couple of inches and added about thirty pounds of muscle and meat to my body since I acquired it, it was still obviously too large for my frame. Not to mention the masculine feel to it. It certainly wasn't a woman's coat and anyone worth their salt could see that. Beneath the coat I was dressed in my normal clothes: fitted jeans, knee high boots, cami and shirt that fit like a second skin. Nothing fancy, which was probably the issue here. Here I was in of the nicest hotels in Seattle dressed like a cross between hobo and whatever was one step above skank.

I had a whole new appreciation for Julia Roberts ala _Pretty Woman_.

I didn't bother flipping on the main lights when I entered my room. It was a nice room. A really nice room. The whole trend lately had been for ultra-modern: glass and metal with accents of dark wood and white stone. I wasn't a fan, personally. It reminded me too much of hospitals: cold and sterile.

Thankfully, this hotel had kind of ignored rising trends.

It wasn't gaudy, or traditional, or whatever the hell the fancy decorating terms were. It was just simple and elegant. The floors were a rich, warm toned carpet, the walls a brilliant peacock blue. The furniture was sleek but heavily cushioned: the kind that just ate up your ass as soon as you sat down. I bypassed the entrance to the bedroom – also that beautiful blue, with a king sized canopy made up in white and darker blue linens, sheer white curtains fluttering softly in the whirr of air from the heater – and the downright luxurious, spa-level bathroom and went straight to the wall of windows across from the entrance. This high up I had both a beautiful view of the city and of the waterfront – though the view of both was currently rendered as nothing more than lights glimmering in the darkness. The view alone, to the right person, was worth the cash I'd shelled out to stay here.

I both appreciated it and didn't give a fuck all in the same breath.

A smile tugged at my lips as I stared through the glass. Not out at the view, but down; down to the street below. He was here. Even from this distance, with only the yellow glow of the streetlights to see by, I couldn't miss him: sinuous and black, elusive and flexible as smoke as he wove between traffic and around the rush of human bodies. Even from up here I could hear the growl, resonating all the way down to my bones. It was familiar and comforting.

I was probably the only person in the world that found the sound and sight of a hellhound comforting.

When I'd been twelve – nestled right there where my life had taken a nosedive and gone from really fucking unfortunate to straight up hell – we'd been talking about Predestination in my social studies class: the idea that God had already decided whether you'd been saved or damned long before you were born. I remember reading this story about a woman who, desperate to know the state of her soul, had thrown her baby down a well. I'd thought she was crazy. Hell, I still thought she was insane. I'd done more than my fair share of crazy shit over the past ten years but I liked to think that I'd drawn my line somewhere before tossing infants down a well for no good reason.

If I was going to throw a baby into a well I'd have a damn good reason for doing so.

I understood her though.

Knowing, for an absolute certainty, that you were headed straight downstairs when you died? Knowing that you had, at best, ten years left of your life? It was incredibly freeing. You can't imagine how freeing. I'd laughed, I'd cried, I'd killed, I'd fucked. I'd socialized with djinn, studied witchcraft, and had dinner with vampires. I didn't worry about heart disease, liver failure, or healthy living. I drove fast, drank hard, and walked the far, dark corners of the Earth with nothing but my wits and my knowledge to my name.

It was, pardon the expression, heaven.

The alarm on my phone went off, jarring me from my thoughts.

_10:30 _pm.

I set the decorative paper bag on the desk and carefully made my way to the mini fridge and the set of shelves that lined the wall above. Carefully, I collected two heavy crystal tumblers before striding back to the entrance and propping the door open a crack. I'd once watched a hellhound tear into a locked bank vault to get to his prey. It just seemed like bad form - both to the hound and to the hotel - to make him break in the door.

The tumblers joined the bag on the desk as I carefully stepped over the line. For a moment, a brief moment, I considered ditching the coat. It wasn't cold in here. In fact, I was beginning to overheat, a fine bead of sweat forming at the base of my skull and trickling down the line of my spine. I couldn't do it though. Just like the rain, this coat had been there then too and I couldn't make myself take it off. So I sat down instead.

From the paper bag I pulled a bottle of scotch that had cost a great deal more than the hotel room. I poured a couple fingers of it into one of the tumblers and leaned back in the chair, propping my feet up on the desk as I stared out at the rain. Now there was nothing to do but sit here, huddled in the coat and nursing my scotch, and wait.

So I did.

Four minutes later the unmistakable howl of a hellhound wrapped its way into the room, raising the hair on my arms. The door burst open, flying back to slam against the doorstop. I could hear the momentary pause in his growl, the surprise that it had given way with less effort than expected. He was used to having to fight for his prey. Having the door left unlocked and opened was no doubt a brand new experience for him. He howled again, massive feet tearing through the fine carpet as he padded closer.

Two feet from my elbow he stopped, growls cut short in abrupt surprise.

I looked up. "Hello Fluffy," I greeted with a grin. Fluffy – not his real name, I'm sure – was the biggest god damn hellhound I'd ever seen. I would know. Since I started seeing them a handful of years ago, I'd seen quite a few. Most hellhounds were the size of large dogs – Great Danes, Irish Wolfhounds, etc. They were big towering dogs, but still just dogs. Not Fluffy. Fluffy was black smoke and muscle with glowing red eyes and the same size as a fucking Shetland pony. Damn thing was big enough to ride. I would know. I'd ridden him.

"Have you been a good boy?" I crooned, leaning forward until my face was inches away from his snapping jaws. "I bet you have. I bet you've been such a good boy. Haven't you? Yes, you have. Being such a good boy, grabbing all those souls." He sat back on his haunches, those bright red eyes focusing on me. "Good boy," I praised as I tossed back the rest of my scotch. "You want my soul?" I asked.

The hellhound growled.

Like I said, I had no regrets. None. It was a deal well struck and a soul well spent. So why was I sitting here, on collection day, in a circle of salt and goofer dust? Simple, really.

I leaned forward until my face was millimeters from pressing against the hellhound's snout. "You can have it," I whispered, "but first you're going to run and go get your master. Tell Crowley I want to make a deal."

Fluffy tipped his head back and howled.

* * *

**A/N:** Chapter title comes from _Sweet Dreams _by Eurythmics


	3. The Games You'd Play, You'd Always Win

**Warning:** This chapter contains derogatory language and physical/sexual/emotional abuse by a parent figure.

* * *

_Ten years ago…_

"Watch where you're going, you little shit!"

I shrank away from the voice, ducking my head as Tom's drunken hand swung in my direction, thankfully missing my face and impacting against my chest instead. Clenching my jaw, I ground my teeth and bit back the hiss of pain as his fist connected with halfway healed yellow and green expanse of flesh below my right boob. "Sorry, Tom. I'm sorry. I'll pay more attention to where I'm going," I mumbled, pressing myself against the wall next to the front door and wishing that I could disappear into the gaudy brown and gold floral pattern.

Tom, stinking of cheap liquor, cigarette smoke, and vomit followed, pressing after me until he had me pinned against the wall. "That's right you will," he panted into my ear as he rutted his erection against my leg. "You're such a stupid little bitch. Can't even watch where you're going. You're going to make it up to me." I gagged, bile burning the skin inside my mouth and throat as I caught it and held it there, willing myself to not upchuck the sketchy leftover Chinese that I'd picked at for breakfast.

"I will, I will," I promised eagerly, swallowing against the putrid taste in my mouth, "but I'm going to miss the bus and Mrs. Jenkins is a hard ass about tardiness…"

Tom groaned in my ear. "Don't know why you even bother going to school," he growled. "You're nothing but a fucking whore. You'll never be anything but a cunt to be filled."

But he stepped back anyway, giving me enough space to worm past him towards the front door.

"I know," I whispered, well aware of the response he expected. "School's dumb. If the school wouldn't call the cops on me I'd just ditch it." Tom grunted, clearly pleased. He reached out and grabbed my arm, tightening his grip around my wrist until I cried out, white hot lines of pain shooting through my arm as he twisted.

"You like that, don't you bitch?" he muttered under his breath as his pale blue eyes darted over me, tongue tracing his lips. There was nothing else to do but nod, vigorously, and hope that he'd let go before he broke my wrist. "Where's your mom?"

"Up- upstairs," I managed to get out without crying. Tom hated crying. So I didn't cry.

Tom twisted his head, always so controlled despite the fact that he'd probably drunk enough beer and cheap whiskey in the last twelve hours that his liver had laid down and cried uncle until it'd passed out from alcohol overload, and stared up the narrow stairs to the bedrooms above. "I'll go check on her," he told me with a smile. "You have a good day at school." I nodded again, waiting for him to release my hand.

He didn't, not right away. Instead he pulled me closer again and shoved my hand against his crotch until I was palming him through his vomit stained jeans. "School's out at three?" he asked, head tipping back as he panted, his other hand fumbling at the zipper.

"Yes, sir." I looked away, leveling my eyes on the bit of wall visible just to the side of his hip as he wrapped my fingers around his heated flesh and thrust into them, groaning and swearing, jerking at my wrist until I could feel all the pieces of it grating together. It wasn't long - it never was when he was drunk - until he let out a shout, hot spurts of white coating my fingers and splashing up onto his shirt. He held me there, jerks slowing until his dick began to grow soft.

"Good." He released my hand and I almost cried as muscles and bones shifted back to where they were supposed to be: a sharp, burning ache setting up residence in my arm. "Be home by three-thirty or I'll take it out of your hide. It's not safe out on the streets."

I nodded mechanically, letting my hand drop to my side. "Yes sir." I paused at the door. "Bye, Tom."

He smiled, bright and charming, as I slipped out the front door. "Have a good day, Missy!" He called after me as I hurried down the narrow walk.

I made it to the Seven-Eleven around the corner before I stopped and was sick behind an overgrown rhododendron bush, shoving my dirtied hand into nearest puddle.

Probably for the best, anyway. That fried rice had been at least a week and a half old.

* * *

_Present Day…_

I knew the second he arrived. Not because he made any noise. The bastard was the very definition of silent, unlike angels. You could hear those feathered pricks fluttering in from a mile off if you knew what to listen for. No, I knew it was him because I knew _him_ and because there was only one demon that smelled like that: the perfumes of scotch, expensive tobacco – you know, the shit that didn't smell like lung cancer -, and cloves mixed in with the normal sulfur scent that followed demons wherever they went.

"Hello love."

I looked up from Fluffy, narrowly remembering not to pat his head. If I did I had no doubt that he'd rip my arm off and drag me down to dig out my soul. "Hello Crowley," I settled back into my chair and tipped my head to get a better look at him. "You look well." I didn't bother disguising the thread of relief in my voice.

The last time I'd seen Crowley had been about a year and a half ago. He'd shown up in a level of disarray that I hadn't seen since the Apocalypse and informed me that I was not allowed to eat anything with corn syrup. Something about not wanting me to get devoured, body and soul, by something called a Leviathan. Since I couldn't really argue with that – I liked my soul right where it was, thank you very much – I let him drop me off in Egypt and I'd spent the better part of a year Indiana Jones-ing it around the dark continent. Nothing like the remote back corners of third world countries for avoiding processed food.

"Business has been going well," he shrugged. "And you look as lovely as always." The words may have been sweet but the tone wasn't. The scorching look that he leveled at me as he trailed his eyes down the lines of my body was about as far away as you could get from sweet. That was Crowley for you: honeyed words and a damn good eye fuck. "My coat _and_ the boots," he drawled in that husky voice of his, like the low accented tones were being shredded as they passed through his teeth, "you do know how to make me all tingly. Pity about the rest of the clothes."

I smirked. "You can always punish me later."  
"Oh, I plan to, love," he husked as he sauntered forward. "Rubbing you raw has moved right to the top of my To Do list. Right after you tell me what the _fuck_ this is!" The King of Hell halted, the tips of his shined shoes all but touching the neat line of salt grains.

I shivered as the roar of his voice swept over me, my bones resonating with the growl that Fluffy raised in response to his master's voice. "Mmmm," I moaned, biting my lip. "You do know how to get to a girl's heart." I smiled lazily and poured another finger of alcohol. "Salt and goofer dust," I added with a roll of my eyes. "Honestly, Crowley, if you're having that much trouble just put on your glasses. You know I won't tell."

Those beautiful hazel eyes flashed crimson as he looked up at me, face going completely cold and giving me a glimpse of what he really was: a four hundred year old demon – practically a baby by Hell's standards - who had conquered Hell and held his throne against all comers. Others might find it terrifying. I found it eminently reassuring. "Melissa," he growled warningly.

I sighed, crossing my arms across my chest. "Spoilsport," I muttered. "I just wanted to talk, okay? I want to make a deal."

"You want to make a _deal_?" Crowley raised an eyebrow. "We've already done that, darling. It was thrilling and bloody and made me feel like a virgin all over again." I smirked a little. It _had_ been thrilling and bloody and oh so much fun – or it had been, once he'd made the pain go away. One of the best nights of my life, in fact. Crowley was usually around for those – my best. He certainly did know how to show a girl a good time.

"I know and now I want another."

"Another? Darling, you already traded away your soul." His eyes narrowed. "You're not attempting to renegotiate, are you? Because we had a deal and I will not toler…"

I waved my way through the tantrum rising in his voice. "Don't get your panties in a twist, your majesty. I'm not going back on my deal. My soul's still yours. It's _always_ been yours. Hell, for the night you gave me I would have let you swagger off with it ten years ago." I took another sip of scotch and was rewarded with a small smirk tugging at half of his lips. "Would have missed the rest, though," I mused softly and the smirk broadened. "No, I'm interested in a completely separate deal."

Crowley let the tension leak from his face as he stroked Fluffy's ears. "Which begs the question, love, what do you have to make a deal with?"

I put the tumbler down on the desk and pulled my phone from the depths of the coat's pocket, tapping my fingers across the screen. "Where did I put it…" I muttered to myself as I scrolled through the pictures. "Not that. Or that. Or… ah, here we are." I turned my phone outward, held it up towards his face, and watched as he tipped his head and peered at the contents. If he'd put his glasses on he wouldn't need to squint – apparently being the main power down under didn't erase all the problems possessing a mortal body came with - but god forbid the King of Hell walk around with spectacles on his nose looking all sorts of fucked up adorable.

I had a picture of it somewhere. Multiple somewheres, actually. Just in case he found one and deleted it.

"Bloody hell," Crowley muttered and I grinned. I knew that tone of voice. I was about to get something that I wanted. "Where did you find that?"

"Central Africa. I thought you might be interested," I began innocently as I withdrew the phone, thumb swiping across the picture of the ancient stone tablet. "Don't worry, I've got it stashed someplace safe." Crowley glared. "So," I asked him, taking another sip, "you want to talk deals or should we go straight to the part where I let Fluffy dig my soul out of my chest?"

"Mmm, you know I love it when you talk dirty."

I winked. "So what's it going to be Crowley? Tell Fluffy to stand down and I'll break the lines and we can talk properly. With drinks," I watched his eyes flicker to the bottle on the table and was pleased to note the slight widening of his eyes. He'd better be impressed. I'd had to special order that bottle and then fork over five digits of cash for it. "When we're done you can collect my sparkly bits – or have Fluffy do it." I shrugged. "It's your soul. Up to you really."

"I still get your soul?"

The look I gave him was pointed. "Honestly, Crowley, it's a little offensive that you doubt me. _Yes,_ you still get my soul. That's not even up for debate."

He smirked at me; that dirty, absolutely filthy smirk that made pornos look clean. "Then open up and let me in, love. Let's have us a chat."

"Finally," I muttered as I pushed away from the desk, letting the wheels of the padded executive chair run over the lines of salt and goofer dust, breaking the circle as it went. Fluffy howled as I broke free, surging to his feet. Crowley watched on, smirk on his lips, as the hellhound launched itself at me. "Hello boy," I crooned, pressing my forehead to his as the burning, sulfurous mass of his tongue peeled half the skin off the side of my face. "I missed you too."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Chapter title from "Set Fire to the Rain" by Adele


	4. Knew You Were Trouble When You Walked In

_Ten years ago…_

There was a fine line between being really, really hungry and flat out starving yourself. On one side of the line your stomach hurt, a part of your brain was continually devoted to fantasizing about food, and god forbid you get a whiff of a cheeseburger because you were like to drown in your own drool. On the other side of the line was a terrible, empty, achingness that consumed you, a constant tremor and brain splitting headaches brought on by low blood sugar, and eventually unconsciousness. I tapped my fingers against the metal of my locker door and tried to decide which side of the line I was teetering on.

Ticks in the _Just Hungry_ column: I'd eaten dinner last night, I'd still been able to focus on my calculus homework through the rumblings of my stomach, my head barely ached, my hands weren't shaking, and I'd probably just puke it up later. Though, arguably, that last one had absolutely nothing to do with being hungry and everything to do with the fact that Tom was waiting for me to get home.

Ticks in the _Starving_ column: I'd thrown up my breakfast, dinner last night had consisted of a slice of frozen pizza, my head _was_ starting to hurt, and I would no doubt be… busy… later.

In the end, with the line running so thin, it came down to what it always did: money.

I got a ten dollar lunch allowance per week, which was absolute shit and based entirely on the fact that I could get a frozen burrito or hot pocket out of the cafeteria's vending machine for two bucks. Not that I ever spent two dollars for a fucking burrito. I could get an entire case of Ramen for two bucks, which was a prudent gesture on my part considering that my lunch allowance only made it into my hands about fifty percent of the time. The rest of the time it got spent on booze, cigerettes, or porn. Still, I'd averaged a modest hundred and fifty bucks a year since the eighth grade. Fifty percent of that went to food, less when I could help it, but hey – a girl's got to eat. Clothes and shoes came out of the remainder because _fuck no_ to letting Tom buy me stuff to wear. Same with the monthly box of tampons. The birth control was nearly free, though I would have paid whatever they asked.

Tom had fucked my crappy life up enough without having to worry about _that_ particular problem, thank you very much.

Everything that was left went into a manila envelope buried in the depths of my locker. In two months I'd be eighteen. In four and a half months I'd have graduated. In that envelope was just over a hundred and fifty dollars. It wasn't much, but it would get me away from here and away from here was the best thing I could imagine.

I'd long since given up on the pipe dream of a good university, a healthy mother, a half-normal home, a decent life.

I'd trade this for a cardboard box under a bridge and count myself lucky.

Briefly I considered not spending any money at all. I still had a small bag of Fritos tucked in the back of my locker next to the tampons and behind where I'd normally keep my Ramen stash. _Fuck _Tom. I'd needed to go shopping today. So I left the Fritos. I might need them tomorrow.

Ignoring the titters of high pitched laughter and the busy buzz of voices deep in conversation I waited patiently at the line strung out beside the vending machine. I'd spent too long thinking at my locker so it meant all the good stuff would be gone. And by good stuff I meant: things that had any nutritional value whatsoever. Even I found it pathetic that the healthy in my life came out of a fucking vending machine. But hey, they had apples. Usually.

The apples were gone. Typcial. So was the string cheese. There was a breakfast buritto left but no way in hell was I forking over the money for that. Or the candy. Seriously. A buck seventy-five for a Snickers? Not happening.

I spent fifty cents on a package of chocolate chocolate chip cookies and retreated from the cafeteria. My head hurt and I was out of ibuprofen. Spending the next twenty minutes sitting in a room full of noisy teenagers sounded like something that should have been outlawed by the Geneva Convention. So I swung my tattered bag over my shoulder and went to find a quiet place to eat a cookie and finish my math homework.

After ascertaining that Miss Hanson had returned to the library, and thus destroyed it as a possible place of quiet refuge, I took up residence on the floor opposite the main office. Putting myself on display in front of the principal and all his cronies wasn't my idea of a good time but a Fichus tree offered some sort of shelter to hide behind and the proximity to authority kept any would be bullies from picking on the lanky, poor-dressed girl with her nose buried in a math book.

It was the deep, rasping chuckle that drew me out of my calculations, freezing mid chew as it washed over me. It wasn't human. It couldn't be. I mean, it obviously was, but still. It shouldn't be possible to sound like that: smooth and ruined, smoke and gravel, light and dark all at the same time. It was like… I didn't even know how to describe it. The best my calculus and hunger addled brain could come up with was it sounded like Mexican Hot Chocolate had been poured through a shredder.

Clearly I needed more food and more sleep because that didn't make any sense. Or it made perfect sense.

Rich and dark; a little bitter, a little sweet, and a little spicy as it flowed across your tongue and down your throat to where it coiled warm and heavy in your gut. That feeling. And then you roughed it up by sending it through a shredder.

Call me crazy, but I was sticking with perfect sense.

I looked up from my notebook, pencil dangling from my mouth as I shoved the madly curling wisps of hair out of my face and peered around the fichus. Mrs. Smith, school counselor, was standing outside the glass door entrance to the administration offices and teachers' lounge blushing furiously and smiling up at the man beside her. I stared. He definitely wasn't the type of guy you saw around here. Everyone around here was… well, they weren't the hard working, backbone of America type. At best they were tired, trudging day to day with their eyes on the ground and just waiting for it to all be over. At worst they were drug dealing, gun-toting Neanderthals that made everyone lock their cars as they drove through the neighborhood. In between were a host of broken, worn down people.

But there was no one here like him.

At first glance he was nondescript. Well, not in _this_ neighborhood because even I could tell that his suit was tailored perfectly to his body and probably cost more than we spent on rent in an entire year. It was black. All of it. Black on black on black. He even held a black coat folded over his arm, which was smart considering that January had kicked into full force and it was raining again: a constant gray drizzle that fell from a dark gray sky to a fog covered earth. It was the type of rain that you didn't notice until you were soaking and freezing to death. I was jealous. The coat I'd used last year had finally gone the way of the Dodo and no way in hell was I going to try and find a coat at the thrift stores during this weather – there wouldn't be any or if there were they'd cost a fucking fortune.

_But_ ignoring the suit he was fairly nondescript. Until you looked at him a second time.

The first time all my eyes saw was a middle aged man of slightly under average height, a businessman of some sort.

The second time I looked I saw a clean shaven, sharp dressed man in his early, possibly mid-forties with dark brown hair that had begun to gray at the temples. Instead of making him look old it made him look roguish. He wasn't tall but he didn't need to be. There was power in that body. He was someone important and he knew it. He moved with both a fluidity and precision that reminded me very much of snake stalking its prey. Graceful, even. Deadly, most certainly.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you darling," his voice whispered down the hallway and down my spine. I shivered. Now that wasn't fair. He had a voice just like his laugh _and_ an accent. Not a clipped upper crust, I've been educated at Oxford accent either. The rougher kind: charming and gruff and just a little wicked.

I raised an eyebrow in surprise as he leaned in and kissed Mrs. Smith on the cheek, making her go from blushing to fire engine red. She grinned, bright and cheerful and happier than I'd seen in her in the entire time I'd known her. Boyfriend, maybe? Except then why would he be talking about business? Maybe he was a hooker?

I snorted. Right. Mrs. Smith had hired a hooker. That'd be the day.

The bell ringing over my head made me jump, jarring me from my thoughts as math book and paper went everywhere. "_Shit_," I swore with feeling as I scrambled to gather my belongings.

"Language Miss Morrison!"

"Sorry," I mumbled in apology as I got to my feet, stuff book and papers willy-nilly into my bag as I went. Mrs. Smith smiled at me and the tension had gathered between my shoulders loosened a little. If she was smiling at me then I was off the hook.

"Just don't let it happen again. At least not where I can hear you," she grinned again. "So how are you doing these days? Heard back from any of those college applications?"

Oh, right. College applications. That I supposedly sent out. Like I'd do something that stupid while living with Tom. "Waiting," I lied with a shrug and a smile. "Isn't everyone?"

Mrs. Smith laughed. "And your mom?" she asked hesitantly, clearly unsure if she was overstepping boundaries. I'd mentioned once, during my freshman year, that my mother was unwell. That'd been a mistake. Now she wouldn't stop asking after her. I mean, I knew she was just trying to do her job but honestly she couldn't do shit.

"Doing great. She's on this new medication that is working wonders for her," I lied with an easy grin, no longer even slightly alarmed at how easily the fake expression brightened my face and curled my lips. "I've… uh… got to go to class."

"Alright dear, have a good day!" Mrs. Smith patted my arm in a motherly fashion and headed back to her office.

Above my head the warning bell rang and just _shit_ because I was about as far away from my English class as I could get. I swore under my breath and turned to go but froze at the sight of Mrs. Smith's … man standing at the end of the hall, framed by the glass and metal of the entrance doors as he watched me, eyes unreadable. Catching my gaze he grinned, predatory and mocking, as he slipped the coat over his shoulders and swaggered out the door.

"Shit," I muttered again as the bell rang, making me officially late for class. Not that I paid attention once I got there anyway.

I was hallucinating. I know I was. Because there was no fucking way the British dude's eyes had blinked crimson.

None whatsoever.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Chapter title from _I Knew You Were Trouble _by Taylor Swift.


	5. I Belong With You, You Belong With Me

When Fluffy had finished washing my face - hurried along by a sharp, guttural command from Crowley – he slunk off around the desk and now lay pressed up against the expanse of windows, watching the hustle and bustle below through the dark of the night. "Bloody girl," Crowley muttered as he stepped across the broken lines of salt and goofer dust. "I can't believe you let that beast lick your face. Even if red is a good color for you."

"I like Fluffy," I shrugged, wincing a bit as the movement pulled at the raw, burned flesh on the side of my face. Crowley sighed and brushed his hand across my face, the draw of his fingers remarkably tender against my flesh. "Thanks," I added as the muscles and skin reformed, everything but the stench of sulfur vanishing from the ruins Fluffy had made of my face. Crowley shrugged and made some sort of _eh_ noise. Gracefully, I unfolded myself from the chair and plucked the second tumbler of scotch from the desk, pressing it into his hand as I stood. Even without the extra four inches these boots gave me, Crowley and I were nearly the same height. With them I was staring straight into his hazel eyes. I let my eyes wander over his face for a moment, taking in the ease of the muscles them I was actually staring down at him; at keen intelligence in his eyes and the flush of warmth and good health pulsing beneath his skin. He hadn't shaved in a few days, giving him a nice level of scruff. God, he looked good in scruff. He looked good clean shaven, don't get me wrong, but that level of scruff that was more than a shadow and significantly less than a beard? Well, it fit him. Fit the dastardly, crafty, conniving bastard that he was.

I could well imagine the things that might make the King of Hell forget to shave and give him that glow. "I see you've been having fun," I murmured against his ear as I stepped past him. "Let's take this to the couch."

He stopped me with a hand on my arm. "Take off the sodding coat. I want to be able to watch you walk away."

"You're just trying to get me naked," I accused lightly as I slipped the buttons that held the front of the coat together. I wasn't stupid enough to think that little ol' human me could distract him, at least not for long, but nor did I completely dismiss the fact that Crowley had once been a man. Not just any man, either, but a man who had sold his soul for a bigger dick.

Oh yeah, I knew about that.

"Glad you noticed," he murmured as I tossed the heavy length of wool across the coffee table and sashayed around it. I'd tossed the semi-translucent gray button down off with the coat, leaving me in naught but my bra and the lace lined black cami. Thanks to the sweat that had formed in a thin sheen on my skin the cami clung to every inch of me and I could feel his eyes watching every single twitch of my flesh, every flex of the muscles in my back and my ass as I moved across the room.

I dropped onto the couch and groaned. It really was one of those ones that swallowed up your ass. I'd probably need help getting up from here. _If_ I ever got up from here. It really could go either way at this point.

Crowley joined me on the couch: a sudden relocation that had him standing at the desk one moment and sitting on the couch the next, forearms braced on his knees with the tumbler dangling from his fingertips as he turned his head slightly to watch me. "So what sort of deal are we looking at?" he asked, going straight for business. "Another favor? Another ten years?"

I snorted. "No. Nothing like that. Something a little more… _weird_." I looked down at the glass in my hand, rolling it between my fingertips.

"You've already got my attention, love," the demon reminded me. He took a sip from his glass and I smiled at the deep rumble of appreciation that vibrated in his throat.

I leaned into the corner of the couch, letting the cushions cradle me as I looked at him. "I want you to make me your familiar."

The King of Hell choked.

I waited, waving my hand in vague dismissal as Fluffy's head rose to cast a questioning glance in our direction.

"Bloody hell woman," he gasped after a moment. "You want me to _what_?"

"Make me your familiar," I repeated calmly as I leaned forward to give him a thump on the back for good measure as he hacked up the last of the liquor that had strayed into his lungs. "Try to drink the scotch and not breathe it, okay? I paid a ridiculous amount of money for that stuff." Crowley grunted and downed the rest of his glass in one smooth motion, the bottle appearing on the table before us as he reached for it.

"In case you haven't noticed, love," he began after another generous splash had made its way past his lips, "I'm a demon. We don't exactly have familiars."

"I know, but you're not just a demon. You're also a witch - and not a run of a mill one like me," I added, having captured his attention. "You didn't just learn the spells and summon up a demon. Your mother was a witch too. It's not just a profession, it's bred into who you are."

"How'd you know that?" he growled. I smirked at him.

"Louisiana, 2010."

Crowley's eyes narrowed in thought. "I think I'd remember…"

"You were pretty out of it for a bit, babbling all sorts of things while you were... high. It was adorable." I thought my face might split from the smile the memory prompted.

"Bollocks."

"Don't worry. I got you to shut up eventually. Or at least babble about something else," I amended wickedly.

The King flashed a dirty, appreciative look at me and I felt it like a lightning strike, my entire body breaking out in goosebumps. "_That_, I remember," he purred, shifting his hips a little. I batted my eyes at him.

"Flatterer." I held out my tumbler for a refill. Normally I'd start worrying about getting drunk at this point but if I was going to bite it in a few minutes I was going to enjoy one last drink. I owed myself that much. "So," I continued after a moment, wiping a stray drop from the lip of the cup with my finger, which I promptly slid between my lips. Crowley's lips twitched, eyes hooding in appreciation. "You're _still_ a witch. The incantations of binding should still work. Other spells certainly do."

"Say that you're right, love, say that I could still make it work. Why would I want to?"

"Power."

I had him. He didn't know it yet, or maybe he did, but I had him. I could see the crimson glitter there at the edge of his eyes. I could practically smell the interest in his intent gaze and in the way his body angled itself towards me. In the end, it's the only thing that demons are ever really interested in. Power. It's the coin that rules the world.

"Think about it," I urged quietly, "I'd be your own private generator. You'd still get my soul but instead of ripping it out and chucking it into the pit for it to be thrown on a rack and broken down into your newest black-eyed grunt I'd be hooked up directly to here." I leaned forward and pressed a fingertip to the center of his chest. He let me: watching, calculating. He'd been King of the Crossroads for a long time before he moved up the food chain, practically as long as he'd been a demon. There was a reason for that. It was that look. "It wouldn't be more power for Hell but for _you_. Wherever you went, whatever happened I'd be hooked up to you. It'd be a power source not easily taken away and it's not something that can be warded against."

"Sounds lovely, but you're too smart to do something for nothing," he quipped drolly. "What's in it for you?"

I smiled, all business. "Power." He raised an eyebrow and I continued, "Just like you'd be able to access me, I'd be able to access you. I'd be neither demon nor human, but both – at least in the beginning. And I'd be completely under your control. For decades, perhaps even centuries I'd be mostly human. You'd have eyes, ears, and hands that couldn't be caught in a Devil's Trap, burnt by Holy Water, or trapped by rings of salt. Eventually your greater strength would overcome me and consume whatever is left of my humanity. You'd be left with a demon guaranteed to not stab you in the back and I'd become a card carrying member of the pit without being subjected to all the nonsense there usually is." I grinned. "Kind of hoping I end up a red-eyes, personally. I think I'd be good in sales."

Crowley stared.

He stared for a really long time and I let him, contenting myself with sipping away at the scotch and watching the flicker of his eyes and the twitch of his jaw.

"So let me get this straight, love. You'll give me the ancient tablet and in exchange I get to turn you into something between a slave and a jumbo sized energizer battery that will ultimately result in you becoming a demon who would still remain entirely under my control? That cover the important bits?"

I nodded once and drawled, "Sounds about right."

"I'll be a son of a whore," he muttered.

"You are," I murmured, unable to resist. "The Louvre, 2011." I added at the look he gave me.

He slapped me lightly on the knee and I shivered at the brush of his skin. "Hush darling, it's not nice to speak ill of the dead. Even if she was a bitch." Crowley tipped his head and looked over at me. "After all of our encounters you'd think I'd stop being surprised by you, love, but it hasn't happened yet. It's a beautiful plan. Brilliant. And a grossly unfair deal – to you, I might add – which makes me want to sign it so bad that my hands are shaking." To prove his point, as if I couldn't tell by the fact that the black of his human pupils was coming dangerously close to eclipsing his irises, he held up his hands. They were, in fact, shaking: that fine, intermittent tremor that comes only in times of extreme desire, nerves, or both. "It breaks my heart that it's not possible."

I snorted, shaking my head. "No, it's _theoretical_," I corrected. "Big difference. And you don't have a heart." He tried to look offended but I shook my head, pressing a finger over his lips to silence the protestations. "North Carolina, 2006 and New York, 2008."

"Bugger…"

"Oh," I exclaimed over his curse, "and Buenos Aires, 2009. Can't ever forget that one." I winked.

Crowley smirked, eyes trailing the length of my body, pausing meaningfully at the swell of my breasts and curve of my hips. When he spoke his voice had roughened, that lovely accent of his thickening as the words fell off his tongue, "Of course. Buenos Aires. One of the best bloody shows I've ever seen." I blushed, lightly, and let my hand fall. My fingers – treacherous things – had begun to idly trace his lips. "Definitely wouldn't do to forget that one, darling."

I cleared my throat and tossed back the rest of the scotch like it was water.

"I'm pretty sure it will work though," I pushed forward, ignoring Crowley's soft chortle of amusement as the blush crept higher on my cheeks. Damn Nordic skin. It showed every fucking emotion. "I've devoted a lot of time to this. Even took it to some other witches – don't worry, they won't tell," I added with a small smirk. It wasn't a pleasant smile, I knew. At least not by normal people's standards. I'd always been careful to clean up my messes. Cleaning them up was almost as fun as making them. "I had a lot of time to turn it over in my head while I was meandering around Africa."

Crowley shook his head. "Won't work, love. The bond between witch and familiar requires the melding of two souls." He opened his arms and motioned. "You've still got yours but I'm afraid that I'm fresh out."

I sighed. "Seriously?" I muttered to myself with a roll of my eyes, "Does no one but me ever think about these things?"

"Think of…" I silenced Crowley by crawling into his lap, nestling myself down so that I straddled him with a knee pressed to each suit clad hip.

"This, you idiot," I growled in his face as I splayed a hand across his chest. "Of course you don't _have_ a soul."

Crowley's eyes narrowed. "Well you're just a fount of good news today, aren't you darling?" I rolled my eyes again.

"You _are_ a soul, you prick," I snapped, astounded. I got that most demons were grunts and frequently hung out a few rungs lower than Forrest Gump on the ladder of intelligence but not all demons were. Case in point: Crowley. How thousands and thousands of years had passed without this occurring to the smart ones was beyond me. I'd known about demons for a mere two years before this thought had first crossed my mind. "You've just been broken down and reformed so that you're a cloud of black smoke instead of a ball of shiny, sparkling bits but it's still the same material. When Lucifer made demons all he did was change the packaging but underneath all that the gooey interior is the same."

"And if you're wrong, love, what then?" I shrugged.

"Then I'm wrong and I go demonic the hard way." The thought made me scowl. I'd signed myself up for this shit ten years ago. I shouldn't have to jump through any damn hoops to get to the end game. But that wasn't the biggest thing. The biggest thing was that I wanted to retain the core of who I'd become once I ceased to be human. I didn't want to be just another mindless piece of rabble, fighting my way through the filth of existence until I came out somewhere near the top. I was already at the top, humanity be damned, and I didn't want to give this position up.

Not a single, miniscule piece of it.

I liked it here. It was comfy. Very, very comfy.

"So," I leaned forward and dragged my lips down the line of his ear, pleased to hear the slight catch in his breath. "Do we have a deal, your majesty?"

I shuddered as his fingers curled around my hip bones and pulled me deeper into his lap, until I was held flush against his chest. "Of course, love," he breathed along my neck. His voice, low and raspy, curled down my spine and settled low in my gut, heating my blood until I could feel it boiling in my veins. "Let me get the contract and a pen…"

"Fuck the pen," I snapped, fisting my hands in the silk of his dress shirt and using them to leverage myself as I sealed my lips over his.

Crowley chuckled, soft and pleased, against my mouth and dug his fingers more tightly into my hips, grinding me against him.

Finally.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Chapter title from "Ho Hey" by the Lumineers


	6. Candle in the Window

_Three years ago…_

I cocked my head, listening.

It was late, late April and in southern Louisiana that meant it was still almost seventy fucking degrees at 10pm at night. At least the soul sucking humidity hadn't set in yet, which meant that I could still have my windows open. I really needed to just get off my ass and go get a new air conditioner. My cottage was a miniscule six hundred square feet. It would take one god damn window unit and I'd stop waking up feeling like I was drowning on nothing but the air. But getting one would require putting down my books and actually leaving my house.

I wasn't stupid. I knew what was going on out there.

If feeling like I was being continuously forced to breathe through a wet silk pillowcase was the price to pay for staying out of the way while Heaven and Hell threw a little party called the Apocalypse then bring on the wet pillowcases. I could handle a little discomfort.

Again I paused, head tipping to the side as I listened. That was three times now. Three times that I could have sworn that I heard something that had absolutely no place in a southern Louisiana night with the chirp of the frogs and chatter of fifty thousand different types of insects. Cautiously I put down the book I'd been poring over and stood, careful to not upset the _gris-gris_ I was in the middle of constructing. I was halfway to one of the large windows at the front of the house when it came again: long, bone achingly low with an intensity that made every hair on your body stand on end. It was a sound that once heard could never be unheard, completely and utterly unmistakable: the cry of a hellhound.

What the fuck was a hellhound doing all the way out here?

Seriously, I was in the middle of nowhere. I'd chosen my location with care. As far as I knew – and I'd been quite thorough with my investigation – I was at least a thirty minute drive from my nearest neighbor. I was, for all intents and purposes, the only human being out here and my deal still had just under three years left on it. There should be no hellhound.

So why was there a hellhound howling for all it was worth outside of my door?

I stopped at the window and crossed my arms over my chest, leaning against the sill. Outside the screen covered window the night was black. Absolutely and utterly black, the trees that surrounded the cottage even blotting out the faint glow of the stars. A dark like that? There wasn't a hope in hell that I'd see anything, but I stood at my window anyway, listening.

There. Again. It was moving closer.

No, I realized after a minute of intense focus. _They_ were moving closer. There was more than one hellhound out there.

Since when did hellhounds move in packs? Something to do with the Apocalypse, maybe? God knows, Lucifer struttin' his stuff topside had thrown the world completely out of whack.

Oh, he was charming enough with a surprising love for fruity drinks and the best damn poker face I'd ever seen but he was still a petty, mean little shit. Of course, if I'd spent millennia locked in a cage I would probably be a petty, mean little shit too.

I was startled from my – no doubt sacrilegious – thoughts by a frantic banging on my door. It took a moment, and a peek through the screen, to realize that it was coming from the back door. I stared. "What the fuck?" I breathed to myself, pausing on my way through the kitchen to grab a silver blade from the knife block. Whoever it was knocked on the door again, hitting it so hard that I could hear the hinges rattle.

"Melissa, I know you're in there!"

"_Crowley?" _I yelled back, incredulous. It was his voice. I'd know that voice anywhere. Hell, I could probably be one hundred percent deaf and still know when the demon spoke just by the way the air vibrated. It was him, I was sure of it but he sounded different. Hoarser.

"Who the fuck else would it be? Just open the bloody door!"

I threw the silver knife to the top of the two-seater kitchen table, abandoning it as quickly as I had scooped it up, and scrambled for the back door. Why was Crowley knocking on my door?

_Shit_. Crowley was knocking on my door. My door that was completely surrounded by… "Devil's Trap!" I warned through the wood as I unlocked the door. "It's…"

"I know. I'm standing on it," he finished roughly as I wrenched the door open. "So do me a solid, love, and break the bloody thing so I can come inside."

I froze, staring. "Holy fucking shit," I breathed, feeling all the blood drain from my face. "What the hell happened to you?"

The King of the Crossroads stood on my back stoop grasping the rickety railing like it was the only thing holding him up. He was a mess: a god damn, certifiable mess, which was disconcerting in more ways than one. For starters he was a demon. Not just any demon, either, but a fairly big fish swimming around in the grand demonic pond. The soldier types might look down on him and try to treat him like a second class citizen but disdain could only go so far, especially when he – and his underlings – happened to be responsible for more than half of the souls clocking in for an eternity spent down under. He was quick, powerful, and cunning. That someone had reduced him to this bleeding, burnt, and broken being leaning against my doorframe was frightening.

What was even more frightening was that he was letting me see it.

He'd been hurt before. Many times. Being a demon, let alone being someone as upper management as he, was a dangerous thing. Hell, as far as I understood it, was pretty much one big assassination attempt after another because the only way you climbed higher was to kill the demons above you. Many, many demons had tried to kill Crowley. I'd even been there for a few of those times and I'd never seen him like this. I'd seen him cut and crippled and fighting with his neck so broken that his head had been on completely backwards, but I'd never seen him like this.

More than anything else – more than the burns across his face, more than the steady drip of blood from his fingertip to the floor, and the cuts on his arms – it was the fact that his shirt was ripped and his suit jacket was singed that concerned me more than anything else.

For anyone else such feelings would have been absolutely ridiculous, but I knew Crowley. Appearances were important. If he was left with an ultimatum of healing himself or making sure he looked good he'd slap human bandages on his wounds so fast that you'd never even notice that he hadn't been pristinely dressed.

"Later," he grunted, swaying. "The trap…"

"Getting it, getting it," I told him, digging at the scarcely visible line of gray paint with the heel of my shoe until the circle was broken. The moment the trapped snapped into uselessness Crowley stumbled past me and half-fell, half-ran into the line of kitchen cabinets opposite the door.

"Redraw it," he ordered tersely, scrambling at the drawers with shaking hands: ripping them open and pawing through their contents, looking for something. "Pen? Paint?" he asked.

"Spray paint, upper left cabinet," I instructed as the distinctive noise of howling hellhounds filled the cottage. Crowley grunted in pain as he went up on his tiptoes, the cans of spray paint slipping through fingers slick with blood. He threw one at me blindly, trusting that I would catch it. I did, nearly dropping it as the superheated demon's blood came in contact with my skin.

"Redraw it," he repeated as he staggered over to the window above the sink, ripping the top off the can of paint he had went. Outside the cottage, close – too close – a hellhound snarled, the noise almost overridden by the baying of others. "_Now_!"

"Fuck," I whispered as growls and snarls filled the night, finally realizing what was happening out there. The sounds of a dog fight were easily recognized, even when you were dealing with hellhounds. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I muttered going to my knees on the kitchen floor and giving the paint a good shake before taking careful aim and closing up the gouge with long, smooth motions. "Fluffy?" I asked shortly as I hauled myself to my feet, digging through the closet beside the door to the big pail of salt that sat on the floor.

Crowley looked up from where he was slumped against the front window. "He'll make it. Or he won't. Not a bloody thing I can do about it," he muttered and went back to spraying something on the glass. I stared at it for a moment, brain tumbling as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.

"Enochian?"

He jerked his head, hissing. "Put it… all the windows and doors," he gasped, spitting a mixed mouthful of salt and blood onto the floor. "_Now_."

I scrambled to do what he said; keeping a close eye on the mark he'd drawn on the window to make sure that I copied it exactly. I knew warding when I saw it, even if it was in a language that I didn't understand. There was no leeway with warding. If you fucked it up even a little bit it wouldn't work. Period.

And if Crowley was half dead on his feet and still this focused then I needed to get it right. No cuts, no buts, no coconuts.

"There! Done. Need any help?" I asked once I was satisfied that my sigil matched his exactly. Injured or not, if Crowley took the time to draw wards he did them right so I was confident that they would keep out whatever it was they were meant to keep out. If I had to guess I'd go with the obvious choice and say _angels_, though that did nothing to explain the hellhounds. Or the fact that he'd had me reform the Devil's Trap.

Angels _and_ demons then?

God, that'd be an awful party.

"Bedroom," he croaked from where he had collapsed against the solid wood door, the warding gleaming over his head. I hesitated for just a moment, unable to look away from the pale ruin of his face as he shoved his fingers into his mouth until he gagged and blood laced salt fountained out of his mouth.

"Shit," I whispered over and over, all but tripping over my own damn feet in my hurry to paint the ward across my bedroom window and the miniscule window in the bathroom. I almost left off the salt lines, wanting to get back to Crowley as soon as I could but I'd never be able to forgive myself if – god forbid – Fluffy came out the loser of the fight going down in the woods beyond my house and the victor came crashing through the window because I'd been too lazy to lay down a line of salt. I'd just have to be careful not to get it on Crowley. Someone had done enough of that already.

Carefully, I set the half full container of salt down to one side of the door and dropped to my knees between salt and demon. "What happened?" I asked again, eyes drawn to where he was digging his fingers into the flesh of his own wrist, grunting in pain as he slowly dug something from where it had been wrapped so tightly that it sunk into his skin. The _what did you do _that I'd meant to follow up with dying in my throat as I caught sight of what was in his fingers.

Rosary beads.

Someone had tied him up with a rosary._ A god damn rosary_. A rosary made with beads that, judging by the tendrils of steam and faint hissing noises it made as he peeled them from his flesh, had been blessed recently.

Most Hunters never thought to use a rosary as a weapon – beyond the obvious, that is. It made Holy Water. They never thought to think beyond to the fact that the rosary was a holy item in and of itself. That it was acid and molten metal all in one that could be used as whips or constraints.

Of course, most Hunters were stupid. Whoever had done this was not.

"Let me," I urged softly, voice breaking. It hurt to see him like this, hurt in a long steady ache that made it impossible to take a deep breath. He had saved me, more than once – for deals, for favors, for who-the fuck-knows-why. The least I could do was take care of him this once. He might even call us even – he _was _prone to viewing his own involvement in my life with significantly less importance than I viewed it. Stupid bastard. He never did learn. I slipped my fingers beneath his own, gently shoving his touch away from the polished rounds of wood. He let me, head falling gently back against the door as I leaned over his wrists, and that scared me even more than the state of his suit.

Crowley did not give up control. Ever.

It was long, slow work removing the beads. The holy wood had burned through him, sinking through his skin until they were all but covered in blood and ruined flesh. I had to fish them out again, fumbling and cursing as I fought to pull them out, slippery with the rush of his blood. They burned him going out, just as they had going in, and I hated myself for hurting him. Never mind that he liked pain. I knew what Crowley was, what he _did_. But there was pain and then there was _pain_.

This was the latter.

And I hated it.

I threw the beads away, tossing them as far from us as I could get them. They rolled into the darkness beneath my worktable and some part of my mind noted it, adding it to the top of my _To Do_ list. I didn't know how long Crowley was staying but there was no way in hell I was risking him accidentally brushing up against the damn things. I'd burn them later.

With the rosary gone – and its cauterizing divinity with it – Crowley's blood gushed free of his wrist, fountaining down over my fingers and pooling on the floor, hot and sticky against my knees.

_He can't bleed to death_, I reminded myself frantically but that didn't calm the panic rising in my throat.

Demons, they weren't the body they inhabited. You could cut them and they would bleed; you could punch them and they would bruise; you could bend their limbs and their bones would shatter. Unless you knew what you were doing though it wouldn't mean a damn thing. Without the right tools you could cut them, shoot them, and beat them to a bloody pulp and it wouldn't matter. The body might die but flesh didn't need to be living for a demon to wear it. Hell, I'd met demons that preferred a dead meat suit and others still that only liked to wear the living. Most didn't seem to give a damn.

But whoever had done this to Crowley? They knew what they were doing. Knew enough to probably write a god damn book on it. And that worried me. It worried me a lot. Because I knew enough about demons to know while they weren't the body the body still reflected their state. They were connected. You could injure the body and not the demon but injure the demon and it would show on the body.

So without even really thinking about it I pulled the soft cotton of my shirt off over my head and tied it around his wrist, pressing in an effort to stem the flow of blood, and that's when I knew that we were in trouble.

I'd taken off my shirt, leaving me in nothing but cutoff jeans and a red lace bra, and Crowley hadn't said a word.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Chapter title from "Can't Fight This Feeling" by REO Speedwagon


	7. Anyway You Want It

_Ten years ago…_

"Where the fuck you been?"

I closed the door firmly behind me and peered around the short expanse of wall to the clock on the stove. "It's three- twenty," I supplied, trying to sound reasonable and sorry all at the same time. I didn't even have to look at Tom, slouched in the trashed lazy boy in front of the TV and littered with empty beer cans to know that he was glaring at me. "There was a wreck over by the Safeway or I would have been home sooner," I lied.

That seemed to satisfy Tom because he grunted and turned back to whatever he was watching. Sports highlights by the sounds of it. "Glad you made it back safe," he muttered as I drifted into the kitchen, only half listening to his voice as I rummaged around for a clean cup. "I'll be glad when you don't have to go out anymore and I can keep you safe like your mom."

I froze. _What?_ I wanted to scream. _No. Never. I'm getting away from you. I'm leaving and never coming back._ Except I didn't because that would be stupid and because I, no _Melissa_, didn't exist here. Just Missy, and Missy didn't give a shit. She couldn't or I'd lose it. I'd lose everything. Instead, I opened the fridge and asked, "Do you need another beer?" He grunted, which meant yes.

I brought it to him. "Anything else?" I asked quietly, ignoring the silent little prayer that ran around and around in the back of my skull.

"Yeah. Pick up the damn trash," he growled, chugging at the beer, eyes never leaving the tv screen. "Fuckin' pig sty in here, after all I do for you." I stood still against the onslaught of the familiar words pouring out of his mouth, waiting. "I put a roof over your head, feed you, take care of you, give you purpose so you're not out doing drugs in the street letting every boy fuck you. Stupid bitch. Can't even keep the house clean. You know your mom's too sick to do it. Gotta step up girl."

"Sorry," I apologized meekly and knelt to gather the trash. It was mostly beer cans but there were a couple of used napkins, an empty tv dinner container, and an empty bag of salt and vinegar chips. It really wasn't all that bad as far as dirt went. Things had been worse.

Of course, this wasn't about the house being a mess. No, this was a game. One that required me to crawl around on my hands and knees with my ass up in the air for an extended period of time.

"C'mere," the slurred rumble of his voice broke through my focus on picking a piece of dried gum out of the carpet under his chair. His fingers slid through my hair and twisted, tightening against my skull as he pulled me up by my hair, leaving me scramble upwards or risk losing an entire handful of my hair. "You know what I want?" He asked softly, pulling me between his legs.

I nodded against the inside of his thigh as he dragged me higher. "Yes sir," I whispered against his fly. Behind the cover of denim he was half hard, the bulging growing firmer with every puff of my breath against his groin.

"That's a good girl," he groaned, hand tightening painfully in my hair, blunt fingernails digging into the soft skin beneath my hair as I slipped him between my lips.

Ten minutes later I rinsed my mouth again, spitting the Listerine into the sink and watching it and the streaks of blood spiral down with the flow of water to the drain. I'd brushed too hard again. Couldn't be helped though.

"Missy!" Tom's voice drifted up the stairs and I sighed at my reflection. My eyes were a little wide, my hair a knotted mess, and cheeks flushed red from scrubbing. At least he hadn't gotten anything on my clothes.

"Coming!" I called, loudly enough that he would be able to hear me through the closed door. "Four and a half months," I mouthed to my reflection, terrified to even whisper it. My reflection stared back at me and then nodded: a swift, sharp jerk of my chin. I could do this. I could. I'd made it through the last four years; making it through the next four months would be nothing.

With one last look in the mirror I turned off the lights and headed back down stairs, stomach rumbling as I massaged my aching jaw.

* * *

_Present day…_

When Crowley finally released my lips I dropped my head to his shoulder, panting as little black dots danced before my eyes. "Fuck," I muttered into his collar, the fabric of jacket and shirt pulling against my kiss bruised lips. The King of Hell chuckled a bit as he ran a hand through my hair, massaging at my scalp and tugging at the soft, tender hairs lining the base of my neck. I shuddered beneath his touch.

"Oh, I plan to love," he growled and I felt my eyes widen as he pulled my head up to face him. He was smirking. I shivered against his grip and watched his eyes flip to solid crimson between blinks. "Before this is all over I'm going to possess you in every way you could possibly imagine."

God help me, but I shouldn't be turned on by the idea of being possessed by a demon. And I wasn't. I had an anti-possession tattoo. Two of them, actually, just in case – a girl couldn't be too careful these days. Getting possessed meant that I'd have to slice or burn the damn things off and that was going to hurt like a sonofabitch. But I didn't believe in God, or rather I had no faith in him. The only constant higher power in my life was currently kneading his fingers along the line of my spine and watching me shiver with that damn fucking dirty smirk dancing across his lip.

The idea of being possessed by a demon? Less than thrilling, outright insulting, and more than mildly revolting.

The idea of being possessed by _this_ demon? I was ready to start begging and it'd been less than a minute. And he could tell, too. Crowley could always tell. The bastard.

"Hmmm. Like that idea, don't you love?" I swallowed and refused to respond, which of course was a response in and of itself. Crowley's eyes narrowed, moving over my face with a ferocity that could see straight to where every dark desire I'd ever had was written on my soul. "You _do_," he repeated, the usual mockery slipping from his voice and leaving nothing but astonishment. "Bloody hell."

Huh. Apparently one could still surprise the King of Hell. Good to know.

His lips were soft against mine, barely present as his tongue traced the contours of my mouth and teased the seam between my lips. I opened to him with a small sigh, my brain scrambling to respond to the fact that Crowley was being soft. Not just gentle but _soft_.

Apparently the King of Hell could still surprise me. Also good to know.

"You _want_ to feel it," he whispered into the warmth of my mouth, astonishment still tinging the rough, sultry drawl of his voice. The brush of his breath made me rock against his lap, whimpering a little as his voice pooled like molten gold between my legs. "You want to know what it feels like to be shoved aside, to be forced to watch and feel things that you can't control." I groaned as his tongue slid along mine in a slow, sinuous dance, rocking in his lap in a desperate attempt to press closer, to get the _more_ that my body was screaming for. "To be utterly dominated in your own body. The things I could do to you, love, the things I could make you do…" He captured my mouth again, harder this time, and I practically cried in relief, giving myself over to the strength in his grip, the heat in his touch.

Jesus fucking Christ, a demon should not be able to do this to me. But he did and had since before we had ever properly met. He'd always been able to take me apart with nothing but glances, or words, or touch. Alone, all three were deadly. Together… Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

"_Crowley_," I whined as he drew away, hands on my neck and hip keeping me from following him.

"Shhh," he growled, tightening his grip at the nape of my neck until I could feel the blunt edges of his fingernails digging into my skin. "You know what it does to me when you get all desperate." I shivered as his words washed over me, arching against him in an attempt to get closer. I didn't need a mirror to know that my pupils were blown to hell, gone almost demon black with desire.

"Crowley!" I whined again, trying desperately to grind the heat between my legs against him. Seriously, I should not be this hot, this needy but I was kind of past caring. The grin was back, positively evil as it split his lips to reveal of a flash of brilliant white teeth.

"Do you know what I really want to do?" he asked conversationally, as if I wasn't trying to ride his lap like my life depended on it. "I've always wanted to see if I could possess more than one body at the same time." I stiffened in his lap, his words running through me like a bolt of lightning. Why would he…? I caught the predatory twinkle in his eye and felt my heart rate shoot through the roof as he continued calmly, softly, leaning forward to draw the words in a hot line up the curve of my jaw to the soft flesh of my ear. "Can you imagine? Me in your skin, filling you up and shoving you aside until you're nothing more than a cramped little presence in the back of your head. Completely powerless to do anything but watch and feel what I do to you… I wonder if I could keep possession of this body long enough to fuck you and make you watch."

I came.

Just like that I came, completely blindsided as the rasp of his voice shoved me over an edge I hadn't even been completely aware I was teetering on.

I screamed, trying to muffle the sound by biting my lip as I stiffened in his arms, every muscle in my body convulsing as heat and bright white fire consumed me, shattering me apart so that all that held me steady was the touch of callused fingers and a constant litany in a smoky voice that drifted through haze of my pleasure. "That's a good girl, come for me, fuckin' come for me, love. Such a fuckin' good girl." I was dimly aware that my muffled scream had dissolved into me whimpering his name over and over. "_Fuck_," he growled as I squirmed over the ridge of his thigh, panting and squeaking and making all sorts of high pitched noises. "So bloody gorgeous when you come. So fucking beautiful."

God, that voice. It wasn't fair. Wasn't fucking fair at all that he had a voice like that: all smoke and sandpaper and bloody fucking accent – and it was his voice, make no mistake. I'd seen him in another body once, just once, and his voice had still been the same – if half an octave higher. Still sexy as hell.

And apparently entirely capable of making me orgasm untouched. I could practically see his ego swelling before my eyes.

I told him as much as I came down off my high. "You and your god damn voice," I muttered, glaring. Not that it did me much good. One: he's the King of Hell. Kind of hard to glare effectively when you've got nothing to back it up with – and considering I just got off in his lap on words alone. Yeah. I had nothing, which brought us to two: I was mostly drunk and completely plaint in his arms, the aftershocks of my orgasm still making me tremble and jerk against every puff of his breath, every brush of his skin as the fingers of one hand curled through the fine hairs on my neck. "It's bottled sin."

Crowley grinned mischievously. "Then drink up, love. There's no bottom to this bottle."

"Bastard," I muttered, eyes slipping shut for a moment as I slumped in his lap.

He shrugged. "So I've been told. If you didn't like it you wouldn't have sold yourself to me," he pushed me the rest of the way forward until I was held flush against his chest, whimpering a little as his body shifted underneath mine, the drag of my jeans against tender, wet flesh making fireworks pop behind my eyes. "And you do like it," his whisper traced my ear: hot and damp, making me squirm again. "You crave it…"

I twisted in his lap, tightening the grip of my knees against his hips as I turned into his lips. "So I've been told," I parroted back into his mouth. "What are you going to do about it?"

Crowley leaned further back into the couch. "Well, love," he murmured, letting his fingers slip beneath the lace of my cami to trace my flesh. "In no particular order: I'm going to fuck you, possess you, see if your theory about becoming my familiar is correct, and fetch that lovely little tablet that you found. Where is that, by the way?"

"Somewhere safe," I murmured as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of my jeans. "Don't worry, you'll get it. After you've made me your familiar." The fingers stopped moving against the curve of my ass and I whimpered.

"Melissa," he growled warningly.

I rolled my eyes. "Don't worry, if it doesn't work I'll tell you – or take you there myself. If it does work then you'll know instantly anyway. It's not like I could – or would - keep it from you." I squirmed invitingly against his hand, arching against the front of his trousers. He was hard, achingly so. He practically vibrated against me, torn between a growling demand and rumble of pleasure. I let my grin fade, let all the masks and personas I usually kept in place slip way until it was nothing but me staring into the narrowed, skeptical glare of the King of Hell. "Crowley, in the decade that you've known me have I ever failed to up hold my end of the bargain? How many deals have we made between us? How many addendums have we added to the original contract? How many contracts have been left unspoken but were carried out anyway?"

He opened his mouth, no doubt to give me the exact number. Crowley never forgot a deal. I silenced him with a gentle press of my hand. "It was a rhetorical question," I muttered. "The point being that I have faith in _you_, in the _deal_. And you have faith that I'll deliver, otherwise you wouldn't keep coming back. Don't insult me by comparing me to your other marks. I keep my deals."

A genuine smile spread across Crowley's lips. "Rightly so," he hummed and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. "Now, go get your altar," he added, shoving me off his lap and giving me a dirty slap to the ass. "I'm in the mood to own your soul and celebrate."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Title from "Anyway You Want It" by Journey.


	8. I've Drowned and Dreamt This Moment

_Ten years ago…_

The events of January 25th can be blamed entirely on the fact that I gave in to selfish desire and stopped at a Starbucks for hot chocolate.

Screw the fact that it cost me more than I'd just paid for a case of ramen and a bottle of ibuprofen. It was thirty degrees out, raining, and I'd had to walk four fucking blocks to the grocery store wearing nothing but a tee shirt and a threadbare hoody. I'd skip a couple of lunches if I suddenly felt guilty, but standing there – soaking wet and shivering despite the heat – I wasn't feeling guilty at all. I just wanted to be warm.

"A tall hot chocolate: whole milk and whipped cream. Name's Melissa," I ordered, ignoring the wide eye looks the barista gave me as she rang it up. Yes, I was well aware that I looked like a drowned rat. Yes, I would try to not drip all over everything. I half expected her to say something. Some quip about the weather was surely warranted, but she just stared into the space behind me as I dug around in my pocket for the cash I had shoved there earlier.

"I've got it love."

I froze as a black clad arm reached around my shoulder and slid a shiny black mastercard across the countertop, sandpaper shredded chocolate flowing around my ears. Behind me was Mrs. Smith's… hooker (because one of _those_ would be carrying around a fucking black card. God, it was a miracle he hadn't been mugged and murdered) watching me with a careful, observant hazel gaze. He was so close that I could smell the spiciness of his aftershave mixed with a hint of tobacco and something that stung sharply at my nose. "N-no. That's alright." I held up the fold of bills that I'd managed to fish from my pocket. "I just had to reach deep."

"Mmm. Keep up like that and you'll make me all tingly in my special place." I stared as he flashed me a grin that was mocking and biting and one hundred percent pure sin. The barista tittered nervously behind me. I ignored her. He turned his grin on her and she fell silent, a red hot blush streaking up her cheeks. "Venti Earl Grey." The barista blinked. "Plain," he added in a definite growl that made me shiver as it stroked across my skin. Thank god I was already shivering. "Heathens," he muttered, including me in a conspiring curl of his lips.

I stared. And blinked. Like an owl.

"Um. No. You don't have to…" I protested weakly as the barista regained her senses enough to pick up the credit card, ignoring the cash I held out in her direction. Not that I could blame her. If I'd had someone looking at me like that I wouldn't have done anything to piss him off either.

"Of course I do, love. You look like hell." He smirked.

"I'm quite capable of taking care of myself," I snapped, feeling irritated. "I'll be fine."

He raised an eyebrow at me as he took back his card, ignoring the stares from behind the counter as he replied, "Yes. You will be." I stared as he moved away from the counter to wait for his drink, unable to shake the feeling that he was referring to something much larger than my cold, drowned rat status. He glanced over his shoulder at me and rolled his eyes. "C'mon love," he murmured. His fingers were hot, almost unbearably so, through the thin covering of my sodden sweatshirt. I could practically see the wisps of steam rising from beneath the pads of his fingers, curled around the curve of elbow and pulling me towards him and out of the way of the group that had strolled through the doors.

"Why?"

"Because there are people waiting and unless you feel like putting on a show…" he wiggled his eyebrows salaciously.

I glared and muttered, "That's not what I meant and if you keep talking like that they'll probably lock you up for propositioning a minor."

The strange man just smirked. "Promises, promises," he whispered, eyes flickering over me with appraising interest. "Maybe I'm just a genuinely good person who likes helping others," he drawled, ignoring the darkening glare on my face.

I snorted. I couldn't help it. "No," I replied with certainty. "You're not."

He beamed at me like I'd passed some sort of test. "Of course not," he agreed with a wink. "Though I do enjoy seeing people get what they want." The liquid smoke of his voice went straight down my throat and curled in my stomach, seeping into the rest of my system like a drug. I didn't even need to look at his face to see the hooded gaze and sardonic little grin playing along the edges of his lips.

The barista called my name and I surged forward to grab my hot chocolate. I missed the burning heat of his fingers pressed against my arm as soon as I pulled away, which is ridiculous. Abso-fucking-lutely ridiculous.

"Fuck," I yelped, nearly running smack into the expanse of his chest and I turned around. He steadied me with a hand on my hip, fingers splayed so that they gripped the curve of my ass. I should have minded. I should have. I didn't like to be touched. At all. This level of innuendo and invasion of personal space should have had me upchucking on his shiny black shoes. Or at least dumping my hot drink over his head.

But I didn't mind. His grip was firm but not confining and so, so warm. Good god, the man was a heater. A small, if highly demanding, voice in my head was suggesting that I just lean into him and let that delicious heat burn straight down to my bones.

I ignored it. Barely.

"Maybe later, love," he hummed into my ear absentmindedly as he collected his own drink and once again steered me out of the way with a gentle press of his fingers. We stood for a minute, just inside the entrance to the shop, and stared out at the rain while we sipped our drinks. Or at least I stared out at the rain. The man watched me over the rim of his cup. The curl of his lips and curl of the fingers against my hip as we stood pressed side to side was completely at odds with the intensity of the gaze with which he studied me.

"You haven't said why," I finally observed after I'd sipped away half of my drink. It was delicious and warm and I'd finally stopped – well, mostly stopped – dripping on the floor, which meant that it was about time to head back out into the rain. It was getting late. Dangerously late.

The strange man tipped his head slightly and looked down at me, smiling. "No, I haven't," he agreed amiably, finally pulling his hand from my jeans. "I'll see you around love." I looked up from my hot chocolate, frown creasing my lips, but he was already gone. I stared blankly at the space he had occupied.

"What the hell?" I muttered, turning to look around the coffee shop and scanning the softly lit coffee shop. There were plenty of men there but none of them were the one I was looking for. I pushed my way out to the street and stood in the rain, staring up and down the dim sidewalk. There were people here too but no sardonic, dark coated businessmen.

I was surprised how… let down… I felt by that.

He was nothing to me. He was older than my mother. Not to mention the fact that he was a random, nameless stranger that I had seen exactly twice, traded a half dozen comments with him, and allowed to buy me hot chocolate.

Still… I shook my head and glanced up into the rain before I began to walk.

It wasn't until I stood dripping in the entrance hall, shutting the door behind me as Tom's enraged, "Where the fuck did that come from?" washed over me did I realize how late it was and that I was still holding the Starbucks cup in my hand.

Well, shit.

* * *

_Three years ago…_

"Shit," I muttered, staring up at Crowley's face. "Shit, shit, _shit_!" He was still… conscious. At least I think he was. His eyes were open, if a little dull, their usual keen, mocking spark gone. Instead he just looked tired. Tired and broken. "Crowley," I called gently, torn between watching his face for some flicker, some sign that he heard me and paying attention to where I was digging the rosary out of his other wrist. I went faster, more concerned about getting it away from his skin than I was about hurting him. "C'mon Crowley, please say something. I'm shirtless and you're quiet. Makes a girl nervous," I tried softly, desperately. "Crowley?"

"Right here love," he murmured, lips barely moving. "Not goin' anywhere."

If I hadn't already been kneeling I probably would have collapsed beneath the gentle brush of the shredded tones of his voice. I threw the second rosary after the first and clenched my hands around his wrist as I searched for something to stem the tide of dark, burning blood. My first choice, my legitimate medical kit, was still sitting under the sink in my bathroom being so very helpful. My second choice, my shirt, had gone the way of the dodo: already soaked through with blood. I reached for the tattered remains of his shirt. They were filthy and looked somewhat damp but they'd work for the sixty seconds it would take me to haul the first aid kit and its yards of gauze from the bathroom.

Crowley's finger twitched as he rasped, "Holy… water…" I stared, confused, as my fingers closed around the silk material. As I suspected, it was wet, and the skin beneath it burned a bright, angry red.

Of course, I realized, my eyes widening. Holy Water. He'd been doused in Holy Water.

For a moment I was torn. What was more important, more threatening? The blood or the Holy Water? Another throbbing gush against my fingers answered that question for me. I didn't know if it was true but the blood loss scared me more than the Holy Water. Probably silly, but still a hundred percent true.

I laid his unwrapped wrist over the wrapped one and pulled my fingers away. Exploding from the blood slicked floor I made a mad dash through the bedroom to the small bathroom, counting in my head as I went. _One… two… three… four… five_… somehow that made it better because if I got back to him before a minute had passed then he would be alright. That was the deal I made with myself and deals had always been good to me. A minute. If I put my ass in gear and _moved_ I would get back to him in time and my demon would be okay. _Twelve… thirteen… fourteen…_

My demon.

If I wasn't scared shitless I'd laugh. I'd thought of Crowley in those terms many times in the last seven years. He was the demon that had saved me, had dealt me the deal that had given me everything I'd always wanted and then some, his fulfillment of my contract continually opening doors and windows of opportunity for me long after he had gone. Somehow though, thinking of him as such in this moment was different. He was not mine. You could not own a demon. You could capture them, bind them, and enslave them but you could never own them. Demons owned you. It worked no other way.

I was his. That was the only ownership here.

And demon or no, he was dying. I was sure of it. I could feel it like water slipping between my fingers.

I dropped back to my knees, ripping the medical kit open and rummaging around for the gauze. "Crowley? You still with me?" I asked, looking up at him and tearing at the packaging with my teeth.

He grunted, a slight hiss forcing its way out around his teeth. "Can't get rid… that easy."

"Damn straight," I growled, fingers shaking as I twisted the round of gauze around and around his wrists as tightly as I could. He was a demon. I didn't give a fuck about circulation. "I'm not finished with you yet." Crowley's eyes flickered shut but he smiled, or tried to. There was the barest flicker of movement at the corner of his lips but it was enough. He was still in there. Still kicking. Still fighting.

Wrists wrapped I turned to his wet clothes. I froze for a moment, all the air falling from my lungs in a gasp as I caught sight of the marks on his back that I'd missed before. The material of his clothing was shredded and torn, revealing blood and strips of ruined flesh. "Hellhound," he grunted. "Before…" He trailed off, groaning as I eased the jacket from his shoulders and flung it in the direction of my worktable. I'd burn it later, with the rosaries.

"Before Fluffy came to your rescue?" I finished hesitantly.

He nodded wearily as I undid his tie and pulled it from around his neck. God bless Fluffy, I thought, well aware of the irony in that statement. I owed the hellhound a treat. Maybe I'd take him hunting. There had to be some asshole somewhere around here that deserved to be carted off to the great beyond. "I love that dog," I said instead as my fingers moved down the front of his shirt. The shirt itself was shredded, ruined beyond belief, but somehow it was still held together enough at the shoulders and arms that I actually had to unbutton the damn thing to get it off of him. "Anything else?" I asked him as I moved to his trousers. "Besides the rosaries and holy water?" I clarified.

"Salt."

I nodded. Of course. I'd seen him vomit some up earlier and now that I had most of his clothes removed I could see it: patches of white sticking to the dampness of his skin, hissing and bubbling around the edges like bacon against a hot skillet. "Shower," I said decisively. "You're going to have to stand up. I won't be able to get it all off of you here." He nodded again. That was it. No jabs about getting him naked. No witty replies about hot shower sex. Just a nod.

Please God, let him be okay.

Except I didn't believe in God. Well, I did, I just didn't believe that he paid any attention or had any power over my life. I believed in Crowley and that was plenty enough for me. Except for now, when it was Crowley lying on my floor. Who was left to pray to? Lucifer?

Right. Because _that_ was happening.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Chapter title from _Skyfall_ by Adele

Also, November is coming up and I'll be spending the entirety of Nanowrimo working on another project. There will be one more chapter, possibly two (What can I say? I'm a slut for reviews. They make the muse write faster.) and then this story will be on _temporary_ hiatus until the second? week of December. Yes, I think I can safely commit to posting by then.

I'd like to give a great big shout out to all those who have favorite, followed, and/or reviewed at this point. You make my day. Seriously.


	9. Death is Rolling in Every Verse

**Warning**: This chapter contains physical abuse and graphic (but not explicit) rape.

* * *

_Ten years ago…_

"Missy?" Tom's voice washed over me, low and dangerous, demanding an answer as his fingers closed around my wrist, twisting my arm up between us so that he was staring at me around the paper cup.

I swallowed nervously. "I'm sorry I lost track of time," I whispered, staring at the floor. "I had to stay late at school to work on a group project and the walk home was so cold…" I lied desperately. "I had some lunch money left over and I stopped to get…"

He hit me across the face, pain blooming as my teeth snapped together. "Don't lie to me!" he screeched, using the hand around my wrist to slam me back against the wall. "You ran off to have _fun_ and left me alone to take care of your mom! You have responsibilities! Who do you think keeps you fed and clothed? Keeps your mom out of the loony bin and you out of foster homes? And this is how you repay me?"

"Please. I promise. I promise I'm not lying!"

"Bitch," he sneered in my ear, twisting my arm until I felt something tear, felt that sudden lurch of pain as it moved just a little farther than it was supposed to. This close I could smell the alcohol on his breath, could see how far gone he was in his eyes. Like Christmas of 2001, when he'd thrown me into the Christmas tree and then fucked me. Afterwards, I'd spent over an hour twisted painfully in the bathroom picking shards of broken ornaments out of my back.

I whimpered and tried to turn my head away as he continued, "Without me you'd just be a whore. A useless, fucking whore."

"No."

It fell from my teeth before I could stop it, the barest whisper of air that broke past the barricade while my mind was occupied with the burning in my arm. Had he broken something? I didn't think so. It felt different than when he'd broken my finger a year ago. Torn a tendon? Possibly. Maybe it was just a sprain… Please be just a sprain. A sprain I could deal with. A sprain wouldn't prompt questions or raise suspicions. A sprain wouldn't land me in trouble.

It didn't matter. We both froze as that single little word exited my mouth and filled up the air between us.

"No, what?"

"Nothing," I mumbled, shaking my head frantically. "It was nothing. I'm sorry. I'm just tired. I…"

"No. Tell me."

"No. Please. Let me…"

"Tell me or so help me god I will beat it out of you."

I shut my eyes. "You'll beat me anyway," I whispered.

I felt his fingers trace the line of my cheekbone, tender against my stinging flesh. "No," he crooned softly in my ear, peppering my neck with little kisses. "You know I only hit you when you deserve it. I have to, Missy. I have to keep you in line or else you end up like all those other girls out there – high on drugs all the time with a swollen belly and no idea who the father is. That's not a life. _This_ is a life. What we have together. You, me, your mom. It's my job to keep you safe," he repeated again, running his free hand down the column of my throat until his fingers disappeared between my cleavage. "I have to take care of you, baby." The hot chocolate twitched uncomfortably in my stomach, pushing at the back of my throat. "Tell me what you were going to say."

"Please," I begged softly, "it's nothing. I'm just tired. You're so good to me. Why don't we eat dinner and watch some TV? I'm sure it's been a long week. You deserve to relax."

"After you tell me what you were going to say."

I gave my head a little shake. He slapped me.

"Tell me!" My head snapped against the wall. "Tell me!" Blood in my mouth, tangy and bitter. "You don't get to keep secrets!" I cried as he yanked on my arm, squeezing until I could feel the bones in my wrist rubbing together, the circulation to my hand dying beneath his grip. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I could take it. I could. I had before. I'd live. Four and a half more months. Four and a half… "You fucking belong to me, you little bitch! _Tell me!_" I stumbled as he yanked me away from the wall, nearly going to my knees as he released me. My freedom was short lived. His hands closed around my throat as my knees buckled beneath me: tightening and shaking, rattling my teeth in my jaw as my lungs burned and my fingers scrabbled desperately at his hands.

He was going to kill me. Either way, I was dead. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

So I did. If I was going to die I sure as hell was going to tell him what I thought of him.

"You… made…me…whore," I managed to gasp out between the crush of his hands.

The world went black as he threw me, head slamming into the doorframe before I fell in a crumpled heap to the kitchen floor. I gasped for air, throat burning and lungs screaming as I tried to crawl away. My arm gave way beneath me and I collapsed.

Tom was on me a second later, slamming me to the floor with one hand. His other gripped the back of my jeans and pulled and _god damn_ that hurt. "Bitch. You think I treat you like a whore?" He growled in my ear. "You don't know how good you had it, baby. I'll show you how a man treats a whore."

And he did, wrenching the cheeks of my ass open and spearing me until I could no longer even sob, his assault on my body eased the slick of my own blood dripping out onto the dirty linoleum floor.

* * *

_7:52_.

That's what the clock on the stove said. I lay on the floor and stared at that damn clock like it was the most beautiful thing in the universe.

_7:56_.

I was still breathing. How was I still breathing?

_8:00_.

Everything hurt. Could I move? Should I move? Was I allowed to move? Where was Tom?

_8:09._

Fuck, but I hurt.

_8:21_.

The TV was on. I could hear it. Something with a laugh track. Tom's voice, rolling with laughter at whatever was playing.

_ 8:22_.

I had to get out of here. Had to. Had to leave. Had to go. Had to…

_8:34_.

Get up. I needed to get up. Did Tom know I was alive? Or did he think I was dead? I wished I was dead.

That, more than anything made me push myself to my knees. It was slow going. I hurt and my arm still wasn't working. It was a miracle I managed to get up at all but I did it. My head swam and black dots danced before my eyes and I had to clench my teeth together to keep from being sick all over the kitchen floor.

Couldn't do that. Couldn't let Tom hear me.

_8:39._

My legs shook underneath me but I was standing. Standing and staring down at pool of blood the size of my hand that had gone tacky against the kitchen floor. There were other red marks: blood from my mouth, smudges and lines from where I had thrashed against the ground.

_8:41._

I nearly screamed when I pulled up my pants, biting down on my lip until it bled anew.

_8:45._

I should take my bag. It had Ramen and ibuprofen. Fuck, who was I kidding? I wouldn't be able to lift the damn thing. Wouldn't need it either.

_8:47_.

I twisted the handle on the front door, straining for any sounds of movement from the family room but all I heard was the TV. _Family Guy_. Tom was watching reruns of _Family Guy_.

It was cold outside. Cold and dark and damp. I could hear it raining.

I went anyway, closing the door silently behind me before I shuffled and limped into the night.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Chapter title from "Bleed It Out" by Linkin Park.

Sorry guys, I know this chapter is a bit on the short side and kind of cliff-hanger-y but I've had a family emergency and thus won't be getting another chapter up before the end of the month. I do have a few rough drafts of it so if I've got a moment I'll sift through those, form the final, and toss it up for you but at this point I don't feel comfortable promising anything.

Thank you again for your continued support. Favorites, follows, and reviews always make my day!

I'll see you lovely folks in December ;)


End file.
